Tales of the Wizarding World
by MikeyX58
Summary: Tales of the Wizarding World focuses on unexplored angles on the world Harry Potter calls home. Each chapter is unrelated, and focuses on different characters and different genres. Chapter 7: Elliott Myers, of the Ministry of Magic, is sent to join a unit of vampire hunters. But with the stories, and the ruins, and the rustling, not to mention the causalities, will he stay?
1. Beginnings

**Author's Notes:**

**This is my first outing in regard to Harry Potter fan fiction. I decided to take a slightly unique approach for this idea, which is to cover stories of random wizards and witches throughout both the wizarding world and the years.**

**While later chapters may make mention of known canon characters, for the most part, this story will deal with a plethora of different situations, characters, and even genres. I apologize if a like story has been done prior - I don't mean to steal someone else's idea.**

**I don't feel these chapters will be overly long - just imagine each chapter a short story, covering a new angle of the wizarding world, adding on to previously known information, or adding new things to the universe.**

**Hopefully this idea is not too off-the-wall, but I understand those leery to read it. If you spot any errors, please let me know via review or PM. I hope you enjoy the first chapter.**

**I do not own the rights to Harry Potter nor any character created by J.K. Rowling.**

* * *

The market place was large. No matter how many times her family had taken her along, the size of the market simply astounded her.

Young dragons being led by disgruntled workers, money passing hands between unscrupulous persons, pubs roaring with the sounds of drunken peasants, and strange little men with pointy ears trading grubby little bags of what she suspected to be gold were all within her sights. To the 11-year old girl, the market place was scary at times, but she admitted to herself that she loved it just the same.

After a particularly loud bang rang out from the aforementioned pub, her mother tugged on her hand and pulled her roughly toward her, ruffling the little girl's silk dress.

"Stay close to me," she whispered in a hushed tone, glancing nervously over to the little girl's father. "It can be dangerous here, so you keep my words in mind."

"But, mother –" she began speaking, only to be cut off by her father, who was dressed almost as fine as royalty, but she knew he'd be able to fight off scoundrels should they attempt to attack them.

"Listen to your elders," he snapped, his eyes meeting hers' for a split second, then returning his glances wearily toward the pub on their left. "You know that we can sometimes attract," he paused for a second, then looked back at his daughter, "unwanted attention."

The girl sighed, but let it go. They had money, more money than most people she knew, but she didn't understand why that made anything different. _The other girls never want to play with me_, she thought to herself moodily, acutely aware of the immaturity of her thoughts. Not that her mother would even much care for the thought of her daughter playing with, what the girl's heard her mother, "those _other _children."

_It's just not fair_, the little girl stamped her foot on the ground nosily, causing her mother to look curiously at her.

"Is something the matter," she asked, some of the former sternness flooding from her face, being replaced with concern.

She was about to answer her, voicing all of her thoughts, when an explosion from behind knocked her and her mother forward. Her father never fell, she noticed, but he appeared overly shaken, and very alert.

As her mother pulled her up, the girl heard a fearful woman's voice cry out, and looking in the direction it came from, saw a young woman motioning to the newly-formed crater where once a pub stood. Tears run down her face as she run toward the wreckage, and she was screaming about her lover.

"It was the goblins," shouted an angry man, pulling out a wand and pointing it at the small, strange men. "They did it! I saw them!"

An enraged, small crowd began to form around the small men (_or goblins_ the girl corrected herself), and she began to feel afraid for them. About to cry, she turned to her father, but her mother spoke first.

Her father already had his wand out, and was looking as though he'd attack the first person to look at him, his face as fierce as it was, but when he heard his wife speak, his fearsome features melted away.

"Don't do it, Richerd," his wife said, a worried tone in her voice. "Don't get involved," she added, her eyes darting between the growing crowd and her husband. "Please, I beg of thee."

"I must – they'll kill the goblins," he spake back, his tone attempting to combine both the urgency of the situation and the sweetness of which he generally spoke.

"Let them die," his wife angrily replied. "Don't endanger your family for a pair of _goblins_."

With one last scathing look, the man ran into the fray, and the girl felt her mother push her down to safety as the first spells began being shouted out. Afraid, the girl ran, looking back only to see her mother more focused on the escalating situation than she was on her daughter. Within seconds of seeing this, she felt tears fell, and just kept running.

She knew not how long she moved, but when she finally sat down near a bale of hay, her feet were tired and she could hear only an inkling of the chaotic scene she just left. Breathing deeply and trying to stop her crying, she looked around this new place – sparsely wooded, mostly open fields, and signs of a small pond just past the clearing.

A few people in the area took notice of the girl, but none approached her – she guessed they all thought her royalty, and thus, didn't want to appear to harm her in any way. She looked down at her silk dress. _I hate this stuff_, she moodily thought, _all it does is make people look at me funny and_ –

"What are you wearing," a voice rang up, snapping the girl's attention from her dress. A girl her age, maybe a little younger, was gazing at her, apparently impressed with what she saw.

She had light brown hair, a high-pitched voice, and wore a graying tunic, her feet bare, yet her disposition cheery. Shaking off her negative thoughts, the girl then replied.

"It's silk" – the girl opposite just stared, confused – "a material from abroad," she added hastily. She felt self-conscious as the girl intensely looked her over, afraid that this girl might take offense to her unearned, but very apparent, wealth.

After a few seconds of silence, the light browned-hair girl said, in a voice that lost none of happiness and curiosity of before, "It looks really nice." She smiled a bright grin at the girl.

Immediately holding her hand out, as her father does when he meets new people, she found herself asking, "What's your name?"

"Helga," the girl replied shortly, with a slight shrug. "Yours?"

"Rowena." After answering, they just smiled at each other, until a faraway shout made the both of them jump.

"What was that," Helga asked, her face worried.

"A scuffle, I would think," Rowena replied, looking over to the direction from which she came. "Something happened, and goblins were blamed." Looking over at her new friend, she added, "My father doesn't think they did anything, though."

Helga gasped. "They won't be hurt, will they?"

"I don't know," Rowena replied in a quiet tone, "but if my father is able to stop them from hurting the goblins, he will."

"Good," Helga replied, in a matter-of-factly tone. "It wouldn't be nice to hurt someone for something they didn't do. It's not right."

Rowena nodded, silently agreeing with the girl. "I think it'll be okay. My father's an impeccable fighter."

"Where did you learn all those words," Helga asked suddenly, looking over Rowena with a growing curiosity. "Where are you from?"

"My tutor in magic," Rowena replied. "She comes by the manor once a day and teaches me both an increased vocabulary and some simple magic."

"Do you have a wand," Helga, in a very hushed, yet impressed tone, asked.

Biting her bottom lip, Rowena nodded. "My mother had one made for me my birthday last. Do – do you not have one?" She felt terrible immediately after asking, as based off Helga's clothing, her parents would never have the ability to get her one.

The opposite girl shook her head sadly. "My daddy says he's going to get me one just as soon as he can. He's been working very hard for it," Helga added, her small frown disappearing after a few seconds. Hesitating, she stumbled over her words, asking, "Can I – can I see yours?" Her face turned overly red, but stared adamantly at the young girl in silk.

"Of course," Rowena said, vaguely aware of both her tutor and her mother's warning about showing her wand off to other children. Other children would be jealous, her mother said, and to prevent that, she was to never take it out in front of them.

She pulled the wand out of her dress sleeves and handed it to Helga, who carefully picked it up and examined the piece of wood.

"It's beautiful," the younger girl said with a smile. "Can you do any magic?"

"Just a little," Rowena replied, "but I'm learning more every day."

"Can I see a little," Helga asked kindly, handing back the wand carefully. "If you can't, it's okay."

Wanting not to disappoint her new friend, she pointed it toward the sky and shouted "_Verdimillious!_"

Green sparks, wispy in the daylight but quite visible, erupted from her wand, and flew a bit above the two girls, who looked up at it, one in wonder, and one happy she was able to pull it off.

Turning to Helga, Rowena asked, "Was that okay?"

Speechless, she just nodded, the look of glee on her face causing Rowena happiness she'd not felt in a very long time. _I've never really had friends before! I hope my mother likes her so I can see her again._

The girls sat down in a grassy piece of ground and spoke to each other. They spoke about their families, their ambitions, their lives, and their fears. When Rowena's mother finally found her daughter, she could barely believe the look of joy on her face.

Wanting to initially pull her daughter away from the peasant girl, she ceased when she realized that Rowena wouldn't let her, which left her stunned. Never before had her daughter refused to listen to her. She was considering reprimanding her when she saw Rowena hug the girl, and say goodbye. She turned to her mother, and said, her tone one of restrained disappointment, "It's okay, mother. I'm ready to go."

Holding her daughter's hand on the way back to the market, back to the safety of her husband, who had successfully prevented a massacre in the making, she couldn't help but notice that something was different. While usually happy, as per her mother's upbringing, Rowena never smiled in public unless talking to others.

On the way back to the market, the large grin on Rowena's face never once left.


	2. For the Greater Good

**Author's Notes:**

**Welcome back, if you've read the first chapter. This chapter is in much the same vein as the first, though with the upcoming chapter, that will change. That title of the story has been changed slightly, replacing "Stories" with "Tales," which I feel better reflects my intentions.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter, and if you have any advice or spot any errors, don't be afraid to let me know via reviews or PMs.**

**The characters of Beatrice, Ambrose, and Ansger the Mighty are original. Aside from that, all of the spells listed are accurate. Such rights belong to the creator, J.K. Rowling.**

* * *

At 28 years old, Salazar was too young to be as angry as he was. That was, at least, the opinion of Beatrice, his current courter. _And he's only starting_, she observed, knowing where this most recent tirade was heading, having heard it before.

"If people just looked around at our world, it's obvious. With blood-mixing, our abilities become less," Salazar stated adamantly. "Of course, it does us no favors that so many of our kind take to courting the non-magical as though the world will end on the morrow."

"Salazar, dear," Beatrice interjected warily, "I am well-aware of how you see those people, but you're ignoring some facts. Merlin-"

"Merlin," Salazar spat, incredulously. "Merlin has had successes, no doubt, as has a few other wizards and witches, but it is far more the exception than the rule. In my ancestors' time, such foolishness would not be put up with."

Exasperated, yet too tired to really put strength in her arguments, Beatrice replied, "What can we really do? Kill all those non-magical? They outnumber us heavily, as I know you're aware."

"The problem," he began, his voice losing some of its anger, and replacing it with an almost formal tone, "is multi-faceted indeed. Most troubling is the lack of connectivity between those of us with magic – never in this current system can those," Salazar paused for a few seconds, searching for the right word, "_Mudbloods _be weeded out. Our kind should either conquer the non-magical, which I fully admit, would by a Herculean task, or we could all make the choice to separate ourselves from them."

Though she's heard many a prejudiced statement from the man she, more often than not, admired, this idea was new to Beatrice.

"You mean like hide," she repeated, knowing her confusion showed clearly on her face, as evidenced by Salazar's contemptuous reaction. "How could we hide? It's not as though they know not of our existence."

"We have magic," Salazar replied, each word annunciated sternly. "Concealment spells, _Obliviate_, Apparition. Believe me, dear, when I say hiding ourselves away from the non-magical would not be a very complicated process."

"And what would we gain from hiding ourselves away," Beatrice inquired, genuinely curious.

"Two immediate benefits," the young man quickly replied, "those being we would be far more safe, and more so, it would show those of us with magic that mixing with those without would be, at the very least, questionable. With the separation complete, and us magical beings willing to avoid showing off our abilities in front of the non-magical, the future for our kind would indeed be brighter."

Unsure of how to phrase the question on her mind, Beatrice began hesitantly asking, "So you're, well, willing to live side-by-side with the non-magical in peace?"

"If implemented, I see it as followed," Salazar replied. "As there are few wizards and witches compared to the non-magical, we should convene in small groupings around the area, using spells and charms to ensure our settlements not be detected. Those that remain in non-magical villages can do so as long as they take precautions, using the same methods I've stated. Details can be bickered over at a later time, though; one of the few things I know for sure is that our current system is not sustainable."

She didn't have to ask for clarification before he went on.

"Our kind, along with goblins and other lesser beings, make no attempt to conceal our abilities or our house-elves, dragons, or any number of magical beasts. Centaurs, from my understanding, are the only ones willingly exiling themselves from those around them. You don't see them being hunted down," he spat bitterly. "There are other issues too, such as our decline in magical ability, but I have a feeling that those would fix themselves over a period of time should these actions be instated."

"What you're suggesting is, well," Beatrice stopped, unable to find the right word. "Well, you will never be able to get the whole of our people to agree to it. The inter-mingling between the magical and non-magical is too common."

At this, Salazar smiled, surprising Beatrice. "This is true. You have a good head on your shoulders for seeing this problem." He curtly bowed his head to her, and she felt a blush rising onto her cheeks, and understood once more how deeply she cared for this brilliant, but so anger-filled, man.

"It is not as though we are unable to learn new ideas, though," he continued, his grin faltering slightly. "This thought can be spread, and we will learn that separating the two worlds would be for the best. Yes, I concede, there will be some who see it as counter-intuitive, and others who want not to give up their rights to duel the non-magical for slights against them. The Wizards' Council would prove particularly troublesome. However, when living in a small subset of a larger community, some individual ideas of freedom must be restricted. For the greater good. I believe our fellow witches and wizards will accept this, as it keeps not only them safe, but also their children, and most importantly, their bloodline."

"Did not Ansger the Mighty spout similar sentiments before slain by the young Gryffindor," Beatrice pondered aloud.

"It may have sounded similar to untrained ears," Salazar replied, "but there are three facts to consider before comparing him with I. Firstly, Ansger promoted the idea of conquering the whole of the world, and keeping it under magical rule. While such would be ultimately ideal, it is so far from practical that nary I can think of a worst example. I say not to conquer them, but to live side-by-side with them, concealing ourselves, and having only limited dealings with them. In a way, it would be like two cities propped up next to each other, but each city ignores the other and only follows its own pursuits."

"Secondly," he continued, "Ansger was mad at the time Godric killed him, and likely much longer beforehand. I know this from Godric himself."

"Oh, are you two talking again," Beatrice asked, surprised.

"The spat was short-lived," Salazar replied, his tone bored, "much like I predicted it would be. Godric would not want to ignore my council for too long. To the point, however, in his last owl, he unto me said, in no uncertain terms, that Ansger's sanity had long ago taken leave. In fact, as I understand it, when Godric finally caught up with him, he was absolutely raving. As Godric put it," he began, a cruel smile forming, "the mad man hadn't ceased wagging his tongue until his head was detached from his torso."

Beatrice made a disgusted face, which prompted Salazar to swiftly add, "He had to do it, as I hope you are aware. As a people, we are destabilized enough, but with Ansger running around, the whole of our people would face massive resistance from the non-magical, likely led by their king."

"You're defending him," she spoke softly, the surprise not absent her tone.

"He and I," he huffily began, "may have our differences, but our friendship is true. He happens to agree with my ideas of the concealment of our world, just so you are aware."

This took her by surprise. "Does he really? I've not heard of any such like sentiments come from him."

"Godric was never the brightest of blokes," Salazar conceded smoothly, "but over our continuous correspondence and conversations, I've shined the truth in his eyes, and thus, he now sees as I see."

Stunned that the man crowned as _Gryffindor the Gallant_ could so easily be led, Beatrice knew not how to reply, and the two of them sat in silence before a question came to her mind.

"What's the third difference between you and Ansger," she inquired.

"Why dear, I would hope that obvious," Salazar said, his common expression of superiority again etched on his face, "I an infinitely cleverer and more cunning than Ansger ever was."

Beatrice, try as she might, could not stifle the shudder she felt.

* * *

"For the third time, Ambrose," the young man insisted, his voice not quite shouting, but close to it, "it was not my bravery that led to the defeat of Ansger."

Ambrose shook his head, one hand rubbing his temple. He was nearing 70, but despite his relatively healthy state, headaches came so much more easily to him then they did in the days of yore.

"Godric, Godric, just for once accept the praise and gratitude of your elders. Your father, I'm sure, is beaming with pride," Ambrose replied, knowing full-well that the elder Gryffindor was likely doing nothing of the sort.

Godric scoffed. "My father did more than subtly suggest Ansger should have been dealt with weeks earlier, and that I perhaps lacked, as he put it, the _proper ability to track dark magic_."

The scowl did not soften as Ambrose replied, "Tut-tut, now. Always, it seems, the youth forget to respect their elders. It's happening more and more, these days, and if it continues-"

"When one is clever than his elders," Godric began, "respect should be much harder to come by."

"You are sharp of tongue, Godric, but please note that-"

"The point I was making before your interruption," the young man continued, the arrogance in his tone heavy, "was that the death of Ansger had little to my perceived bravery, and more with the lack of magical skills others possessed."

Ambrose groaned. "Not this hogwash again. While we all can do magic, there is little doubt that it's only natural some of us are more gifted and endowed as such. Merlin-"

"You know," Godric interjected, ignoring the man's disappointed expression, "it's a shame to me that the pinnacle of greatness the whole of the Wizarding community has is nowhere to be seen in times of crisis."

Shock and outrage immediately covered Ambrose's face. "Merlin has done more for the Wizarding community than any other-"

"Even if that is so, it matters little to the point. Merlin easily could have dispatched Ansger, but he's off courting the non-magical king-"

Ambrose swiftly pulled out his wand, despite his age, surprising the young man. "So help me, I will curse you if you insult Merlin once more. I do not care who your father is."

Godric said nothing, though his displeasure was obvious. The tension slowly subsided, and a minute later, Ambrose placed his wand back into his robes.

"This is my real point," Gryffindor continued calmly, though eying Ambrose far more cautiously than before. "I understand that Merlin is oft-considered one of the most powerful wizards we've known. I do take concern with your idea that some wizards are more naturally inclined to do great things than others, though."

Ambrose shook his head lightly. "Godric, Godric, understand please. I am not saying that most wizards are naturally weaker than Merlin. It's the opposite – Merlin and his ilk are just naturally stronger than the average wizard, myself included."

"I see that as selling yourself, and the Wizarding community, short," Godric replied blandly. "If no steps are taken to ensure that every witch and wizard has an equal opportunity to learn, then it's a foregone conclusion those with more wealth will fare better than those without."

"And sad as that may be," Ambrose concluded, "such is how it is done. It's not as though our children aren't learning a variety of magic from their parents."

"But the parents themselves only have limited experience with certain spells," Godric replied insistently. "There are those who know not the idea of battle magic, and as such, teach their children only the more pedestrian spells which they know. It's not as though they're bad parents; they just only teach what they know, and that's limited."

"Now Godric," Ambrose gently said, "are you suggesting that grown witches and wizards do not know spells?"

"In their own trades, certainly, they do," Godric replied. "The blacksmith knows _incendio_, as the farmer knows _aguamenti_. The builders know _wingardium leviosa_ while the tax-collectors know _accio_."

At this, Ambrose chuckled, but the young Gryffindor impetuously pushed on.

"But the blacksmith may not know _anapneo_ or _petrificus totalus_."

"And why would children need to know such spells," Ambrose asked, confused.

Godric had to restrain himself before answering, knowing that this conversation was not one taken lightly. "They will be children for only so long. Ansger was able to uproot our people for a month before I finally took him down. If everyone knew and was able to use the spells I know, it would have happened much quicker."

"Ansger was a, well, _troubled_ individual," Ambrose replied delicately. "Are you aware that his herd of Hippogriff was slaughtered by a non-magical mob before what transpired?"

"Be that as it may," Godric replied, his voice gentle, yet firm, "it is the duties of those with the ability to do so to ensure the safety of our children. I am not suggesting an 11-year old take on a fully-grown dark wizard, but if they just knew some basic spells to protect themselves just in case they ever need to, I feel it'd be greatly beneficial."

Ambrose sighed. "There is some truth in your words. The Wizards' Council would never hear a word of it, though. They'd see it as a warning to their children. _Either learn how to fight or be prepared to die_. We don't live in an overly dangerous world, not compared to our ancestors."

"Countless stories cross my ears," the young man began, and not for the first time, Ambrose wondered why he had not strived for political power. "Just last year, those five Goblins were killed. That vicious slaying of Nakrag in the south last month. Harold Whittle, the squib who was dragged out of his grandmother's hut and burned to death by the non-magical. Our ancestors may have had it worse, but we don't seem to be doing much better."

"What do you want me to do about it, Godric," the older man asked, his voice dulled. "While the Wizards' Council has implemented mild changes to our society, you cannot seriously expect them to create an academy of sorts for every single child to attend. It's just not reasonable."

"The Wizards' Council is part of the problem," Godric said, his tone dark. "With them standing in our way, we can never make the progress we need."

"I am a member of the Council, Godric," said Ambrose sternly, "and while I may have been friends with your father for four decades now, I will not hesitate to brand you a traitor. Don't think just because I dine at your castle every fortnight that you can speak treasonous words to me. I will not be party to such a conversation."

Frustrated, the younger man sighed. "I am not yet 30 years of age, but I can tell you, if our world does not institute certain changes, the circumstances will be dire."

Ambrose eyed him carefully. "If you could have one single change, what would you hope for," he asked, a mixture of curiosity and hesitation apparent in his voice.

"A stronger, more centralized governmental system," Godric replied quickly, "much like the non-magical have. Instead of a loose bundle of towns and cities overseen by members of the Council, collecting taxes for themselves and not the benefit of their subjects, we should become much more unified. Maybe create whole magical towns away from the eyes of the non-magical. Force the Goblins to stop dealing barred substances to the non-magical and magical alike. Forge an alliance between the magical of distant lands and us. These are all steps that can be taken."

At first, Ambrose didn't reply. He was one such overseer, having taxes collected for him, and the accusation of him mishandling his power stung hard. What hurt more was the lack of his friend's sons' hesitation. Yes, a headache was definitely going to plague him tonight, he well knew.

"You are speaking," Ambrose began, not feeling this old before in his life, "of nothing short of revolution. What you are suggesting cannot be done. The Wizards' Council will make sure of that."

"That is because those on the Council are too focused on maintaining their own power and stake of the land. Instead of doing what is best for the whole of the community, they continue blighting the very idea of public service. All we – I mean I, want is-"

"We?" A few seconds passed as Ambrose mused. "Ah, it all makes sense now. Are you still speaking to Slytherin? You do realize that family is no good."

A very pronounced frown came upon Godric's face. "Salazar is a good friend, Ambrose. He has made mistakes, but do not tell me, as my father does day after day, that he is nothing more than a dark wizard."

"I've heard he can speak to serpents," the man replied, shaking his head. "That is a sure sign of a dark future."

"Are you a seer, now, Ambrose," Godric snapped, his face red in anger. "Salazar is a very clever wizard. He and I both see the future we face if our world continues down the path we're on. What we propose may sound revolutionary, but it would benefit us all."

"Your intentions, well-founded as they may be, will help you little. You cannot upheaval our world – your world – just because you and your friend perceive problems that no one else does. People will fight back, and history will not look fondly upon you, no matter how many power-hungry wizards you are able to defeat."

"How history will view me makes no difference on my actions," Godric sternly said. "It's for the greater good that we have a central government, an institute where our children can learn, and concealment to keep us and the non-magical separate."

"You are not a poor boy," Ambrose stated. "If you so wish, you are perfectly capable of funding small war to bring the Wizards' Council to its knees, thus endangering the whole of the Wizarding society. Slytherin can help you, and that radical Ravenclaw girl up north. Just know that if you so choose, we will stop you any way possible."

"It won't come to that," Godric said, sourly. He stood, bowing his head at the slightest of angles toward his host. "You are right, though. With the combined funds of myself and friends, some changes can be initiated."

He turned, and went to the door, saying, "You old lords may not enjoy the ideas of the youth, but we have reasons for thinking as we do, and we have every good intention. It really is for the greater good."

With that, Godric Gryffindor, son of Ambrose's best friend, left his home.

Ambrose sighed.

_I fear for that boy's future. He may be able to fight with the best of us, but he's a danger to us. If his father doesn't make him see sense, then only Merlin himself will be able to handle it._

He slowly stood, and hobbled over to his warm cot where he's slept most of his life. Lying down, sleep graciously came to him quickly. He was haunted, though, by the conversation he'd just had, and Godric's insistence of his ideas, but mostly, the thought that struck him as the young man left. A thought of war.

_Please, let it not come to that. Please._


	3. Christmas at Hogwarts

**Author's Note:**

**First off, many thanks to merdarkandtwisty for the reviews. I deeply appreciate it, and hope you enjoy this installment.**

**This is the first non-history based chapter, but I thought a semi-touching holiday story would be appropriate for the day.**

**If you want to get into the holiday spirit even more, then I'd suggest listening to these two wonderful wizard rock Christmas songs, being "Hogwarts is Home for Christmas" by The Brothers Black and "Christmas at Hogwarts" by Hungry Hungry Hippogriffs. The former can be found on YouTube, and the latter, bandcamp.**

**If any errors are present, let me know, and I will deal with them promptly.**

**With that, I wish everyone reading a happy holiday, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**I do not own Harry Potter. There are a few original ideas in this chapter, but they're all done with the framework J.K. Rowling laid down, so I owe her my deepest gratitude.**

* * *

She was going to cry.

She felt the urge coming, but in a hopeless attempt, she fought against the tears. They came regardless.

It was chilly in the Owlery, but Emily couldn't face her peers back in the common room at the moment. Instead, she absent-mindedly wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her robes, glancing out to the grounds.

No doubt, it was beautiful. The snow had lightly fallen throughout the previous night, and it coated the whole of the grounds. Some places, the snow was inches deep, but for the most part, it looked to be a calm Christmas for all those few who remained at Hogwarts.

_Like me_, she thought glumly.

And that destroyed her. She knew coming to Hogwarts wouldn't be easy; never having been away from her parents for more than a week, much less months at a time, Emily knew it would be a struggle. What she didn't know is that for the past year, her parents had been arguing on-and-off, and only by a clinically-written letter she received two weeks prior did she learn that she couldn't come back home for the holidays. Her parents were separating, and they needed time alone to work on the legal details.

The letter, written by her mother, had ended in "With love," but that didn't fool Emily; if her parent's loved her, they wouldn't insist she stay at school over Christmas, and they wouldn't just split up because things had been rough for a little.

And yet, they were, and for the first time in her life, Emily would be spending Christmas alone.

She lowered her head in her hands, still chilly, but oddly, feeling as though being around an open flame wouldn't help much in the way of warming her. She also felt more tears leak from her eyes. Emily felt lost, unsure of even the most basic facts of her life. One thing she did know, though, was that the old hat was wrong; there wasn't a brave bone in her body.

* * *

Emily remained in the Owlery until it got too cold. Though doubting it would help much, she walked in the direction of the Great Hall, as it was just about close to the time dinner was to be served.

_Christmas is tomorrow_, she considered to herself, her stomach filled with butterflies, _and there's no one here I can even talk to. None of the girls in my year like me, and everyone else in the common room ignores me._

Her grades were far from poor, but even so, the professors felt so impersonal to her, save some gentle smiles from Professor Sprout and Flitwick._The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is just sorta there_, she began listing in her head, walking in the direction she hope would lead her to the Great Hall, _I don't even remember her name. Madam Hooch seems okay, but she's so stern, like McGonagall. Sinistra offered her a few smiles, but her eyes were always cold. Professor Binns couldn't tell me apart from a seventh year, and Professor Snape…_

Emily physically shuddered, not wanting to think of _that _professor any more than she had to. Fortunately, however, another thought took hold, as she turned down a hallway which she was sure she'd not seen before.

_Oh, great_, she thought miserably, looking around for an indication of where she was. _Like my day wasn't bad enough. Now I won't be able to get dinner, and I'll be lost for hours, and people will have to find me because I'm just a pathetic little-_

"Excuse me," came a jolly voice from above her.

Emily jumped as a portly, round ghost in robes glided down to her. She backed up a little, but once she took notice of the kindly smile he wore, she felt a bit safer.

"Ye-yes," she asked, stumbling over her words.

"Are you lost, my dear Gryffindor," the ghost inquired politely. "If so, I'd be delighted to take you to wherever you wish to go."

Emily looked down, her face reddening. "I was trying to get to the Great Hall," she mumbled.

A gentle chuckle caused Emily to look up. The ghost wasn't frowning, nor did he examine her with a critical look whatsoever.

"That's quite all right, dear. Follow me," he said, and as he drifted back the way she came, Emily followed. He carried on speaking, his tone one of unhampered happiness. "When I was but a lad, I'd get lost all the time. It was only once I discovered where the kitchens are that I finally got my bearings."

His smile grew wider as Emily took this in, and then giggled. "What House were you in?"

"Hufflepuff," the ghost replied fondly, looking forward in the hall they were walking, but Emily was sure he was really looking back on his past. "Better friends and people I would never quite meet. Oh, a few of them are on portraits scattered throughout the castle, so it's not all bad."

They reached the main stairs suddenly, surprising Emily. "Well, um," she began awkwardly, looking at the ghost, "thank you."

He waved his hands as if to say it was no problem. "If you ever need assistance again, ask a portrait for the Fat Friar, and I'll be there quicker than a Snidget in a snowstorm," he nodded his head gently, and floated through a nearby wall.

Emily smiled, but then it faltered without warning. _If only everyone else could be as nice as he was_, she thought darkly, moving down the stairs.

* * *

Her mood hadn't improved, and unbeknownst to Emily, she had again lost sense of her surroundings, and promptly ended up… _outside?_

"Oof," she exclaimed, moving the branches out of her face. _Why was there a tree in the hallway, _she considered incredulously.

"Gallopin' Gorgons," exclaimed a rough voice, and the tree was immediately shifted to the side, revealing to Emily the groundskeeper, a large, somewhat frightening man. "Shoulda seen yer there," the man spoke apologetically.

"It's okay," she replied weakly, bending her neck in order to look up at him, seeing his concerned face. "Really, I'm fine."

"Tha's good, tha's good," he said sincerely. "Yer here fer th' feast, right?"

Emily meekly nodded her head, though even at the time, she felt foolish doing so. This man clearly wasn't as bad as Filch and his devil-cat were.

"Couldn't'a bin anything else," the man smiled. "Me name's Hagrid, jus' s' yeh know."

"Nice to meet you," Emily replied brightly, though she felt as though she wasn't doing a good job of hiding her inner feelings, as a small frown formed on Hagrid's face.

"Yeh sure yer fine? Gryffindor or not, ev'ryone has a bad day ev'ry once 'n a while. Pretendin' nothin's wrong an' not talkin' 'bout it, well, tha's not gonna help, see?"

When Emily didn't reply for a few seconds, Hagrid continued. "Now, 'ow 'bout this, 'cause yeh look like yeh need it. Once I'm finish'd with this tree, 'ow 'bout yeh come down to me house, an' have a cuppa? An' yeh can talk abou' yer problems or summat? It's more'n yeh can get in th' castle, yeh know, o' 'course."

He eyed her curiously, both sternly, yet kindly, and a small smile came onto her face. "Okay, I'd like that. Um, what about the feast?"

"Jus' grab some food an' go," Hagrid replied, his grin reappearing, only much wider. "Yeh'll not be keepin' food from others, so don' worry on it."

With that in mind, Emily and Hagrid both entered the Great Hall, and five minutes later, left the castle together, out into the snowy twilight.

* * *

Lying on her bed on Christmas Eve, Emily was conflicted. Sure, meeting both the ghost and Hagrid had greatly improved her day, but that didn't change the fact that her parents were still splitting up, and she'd be alone most of Christmas (though Hagrid had more than forcefully suggested she come down to his hut around lunch, which was an offer she gladly accepted).

_Today wasn't terrible_, she admitted to herself, though it felt wrong. She felt as though she should feel bad. Quite simply, though, at this moment, Emily wasn't able to muster it.

Her head on her pillow, her last conscious thought was Hagrid's words to her near the end of the night: "Yer paren's, well, yeh can' solve ev'ry problem, see? Yeh jus' have to concentrate on yehself an' make sure yer happy. Ev'rything else comes after tha'. Don' let anyone else tell yeh somethin' differen'."

* * *

The happiness she felt had dissipated by the morning, however. Outside, it was snowing rapidly, and a true blizzard seemed to be what the Christmas day called for the weather. It wasn't until she had sat up on her bed that she noted a small grouping of presents on top of her chest. One, a disheveled, small brown package struck her as curious.

Grabbing that one first, she opened it to find a pair of old, but very comfortable-looking earmuffs, with an attached noted, scribbled hastily:

_Thought you might want to keep warm on your way down,_

_so maybe this will help you out. If you still wanna come down,_

_better make it one. Bring friends if you want._

_Hagrid_

Emily smiled at this, but like many of her smiles these past few days, it faltered quickly. _What's wrong with me_, she pondered miserably, lying back down on her bed.

* * *

The common room, despite many people having gone home for the break, was chaotically loud when Emily arrived. A third of them were wearing heavy sweaters, and looked as though they'd just gotten back inside from a snowball fight.

"Blimey, you bloke," said one red-headed boy, second-year, Emily thought, to who she guessed was a much older brother, broad shoulders, of red hair also, "you have a strong arm. Get it from wrestling hippogriffs?"

"Or manticores," the twin of the younger redhead suggested.

"Chimaeras," the other twin added.

"Trolls?"

The older brother chuckled heartedly at this. "Wrong on all counts. Think more fire-breathing."

"Mum," both the twins recited simultaneously, looking horrified at the prospect.

"Maybe I'll tell you over breakfast," the older brother replied, moving toward the doorway leading out of the common room. "Perce is there already, right?"

One of the twins rolled his eyes. "Yep. Poor bloke woke up at five, promptly blew us off, studied until seven, and went down to eat."

"It's as though he wants to be a prefect," the other twin joined in, rolling his own eyes. "His priorities are all messed up."

The older brother frowned slightly at this, but the second twin chimed in quickly. "Nah, you're okay, Charlie. Bill too. It's Percy who's going to be such a prat once he gets his badge."

"You make it sound as though he's not one now," the other twin muttered.

"Too true," the older brother, Charlie, added, "but let's keep that between ourselves, okay? After this next term, I'll only have to see him during Holidays."

"Where will you go," asked one of the twins (Emily honestly couldn't tell them apart, so watching this was beginning to give her a slight headache).

"Yeah, Bill's in Egypt. You going to Hungary?"

"Or Macedonia?"

"Fiji?"

"Wales?"

"Ital-"

"Breakfast. Now," shouted Charlie, though in a good-natured tone. He walked out of the common room, leaving the twins looking at each other.

"Even off the pitch, he can be a right pain in the bum, innit?"

"Too right you are, Fred – too right you are," replied the other twin, grimly.

The two made their way out of the common room, leaving Emily alone with five other House members who she didn't know the first thing about.

_Hagrid said making new friends always helps_, she considered, sitting down in front of the fireplace, _but I don't know how to do that. Just talk to them? Would I even have anything in common with anyone? _She doubted it, but Emily knew that Hagrid meant well. _Those red-haired brothers seem sorta cool, but would they even think about letting me in their circle? _Emily sighed aloud, noting that none of those in the common room took any notice. _I guess I could give it a try next term_-

Her thoughts were interrupted by two loud voices coming from the portrait.

"-mey, what if someone else got it?"

"Even if they did, they wouldn't know what it was, so it'd be fine."

"But then they'd – chuck it out!"

A pause from the other boy. "If it comes down to it," he began solemnly, "I'll go through every bin in Hogwarts to find it."

The two red-headed twins walked back into the room, and one briefly made eye-contact with Emily. She blushed lightly and turned her head down, yet still taking in their conversation.

"Ah, found it," came one of the twins, excited. "Not moved an inch. Told you it'd be fine."

"Still not worth the risk, you prat," came the reply. "I'd be barmy to leave it lying around somewhere."

"Sod off, you git," said the other twin brightly. "We have it, now pocket it and let's go."

She heard one pair of footsteps moving toward the portrait, but stop almost as suddenly as they began. "You coming, George?" Surprisingly, Emily thought she heard concern in his voice, with a sprinkle of surprise.

"Yeah, just a sec, okay?"

There wasn't a reply back, but Emily heard the portrait open, and she had the distinct feeling only one of the twins was outside of the common room.

"Oi," came a gentle voice. Her eyes flickered upwards toward him, seeing if it was she who was being addressed, and confirmation came with a ",yeah, you."

Lifting her head, she was facing one of the red-headed twins. "Yes," she quietly asked.

The boy looked at her, his voice filled of concerned. "All right, there?"

Emily shrugged, replying, "Yeah, fine, I guess." _As if that really convinced him._

"Nah, come on now," the boy said, looking her over, "that's rubbish. I'm George."

He held out his hand and Emily, after a few seconds, took it. "Emily," she replied, not even bothering to hide her current emotional state. "And no, my day's not been going that well."

"You eat yet," George asked, "'cause if not, why don't you come down and eat with us?"

A weak smile formed on her face. "I'd like to, but are you sure I won't get in your way?"

George looked mildly shocked at the thought, and took almost 30 seconds to recover. "What are you on about? Get in the way? You're joking," he said good-naturedly.

"Well, then, sure," Emily said, feeling some of the heaviness lift from her heart. "If you don't mind."

"Nah, I think we'll all be right chuffed to have a new voice in the conversation," George said, leading the way out of the common room. "Oi, Fred," he shouted to his twin brother, "meet Emily – she's going to be eating with us from here on out."

_That's not quite what I said_, Emily thought, but she knew he was just joking. _Most likely._

"Pleased to meet you," Fred said, bowing his head slightly, causing George to snicker aloud. "Oi, you prat," he scowled, "it's called being a gentleman."

George rolled his eyes, and Fred began walking to the staircase. "I'm not daft, you tosser. But really, you, a gentleman? I should write that one back to Ron, and give him a laugh."

"Is he another brother," Emily asked, her voice timid, especially compared to the festive tones in which the twins were talking.

"Yep," George replied quickly. "See, there's me and Fred, second years, Percy, fourth year-"

"And prat," Fred muttered darkly under his breath.

"Fair description, that," George admitted. "But anyways, he's a fourth year. Charlie, who you may have seen a bit earlier, is in his seventh year. Ron's back at home, starting Hogwarts next year, and our only sister, Ginny, starting in two years."

"There's Bill too," Fred added, counting off on his fingers. "He left Hogwarts ages ago."

"Only two, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, but that was before we got here, so who can remember?"

"Ah, yeah, that's true."

"And what makes Percy a prat," Emily asked, smiling, as she was feeling more confidence in her ability to converse.

"He's not, really," George quickly replied, cutting off what Emily was sure to be a rude remark from Fred. "Perce just really fancies hard work."

"And power," Fred added.

"Well, that, and both authority and the Ministry. Sort of the complete opposites of us," George said, grinning. "Fred and I have a bet over whether or not Perce will lighten up if he gets a prefect badge."

"Which I think is as likely as dad winning the Prophet Galleon Draw," Fred replied darkly.

"Hey, it's possible, innit?"

Somber, Fred said, "Not bloody likely."

George shrugged. "Worst ways to spend a galleon, though, right Emily?"

"Yeah, that's true," she replied, noting that talking about money seemed to rub Fred the wrong way. "What's Bill doing now?"

"Curse Breaker in Egypt," Fred chimed in, appearing more upbeat. "It's wicked cool, based on the letters he's sent back."

George nodded in agreement as they reached the door to the Great Hall. "Bill's always been one to jump into the more, well, shall we say, dangerous jobs."

"So, what's your family like," Fred asked politely.

Emily's smile fell when hearing the question, but she didn't notice George send his brother a hard glare. "Well, um, honestly, there's some problems right now." _Understatement_, she glumly thought.

"Ah, well, if anyone can cheer you up, it's Percy," Fred replied bracingly, nodded to an older red-haired boy reading a large book, sitting across from Charlie. He glanced up at the sound of his name.

"Yes," he inquired, and Emily could tell what the twins meant. She definitely felt an aura of authority from the young man.

"Perce, this is Emily," George began. "She'll be eating with us."

Percy gave both his brothers a quick glance, and then looked at Emily. "Quite," he replied, nodding. "All right there, Emily?" He held out his hand.

She grasped it, and noticed how firm the handshake was. "Yeah. You?"

"Oh, having a spot of trouble with this Arithmancy essay," Percy replied, turning back to the book he was reading. Emily saw he had a quill in his other hand, and a lengthy writing near him. "Professor Vector's working very hard to ensure we have a good grasp on the topic at hand."

Fred sat down next to him, trying to grab the paper away, but was unsuccessful. Percy shot him an acidic glance, while Charlie, from across the table said, "Let him be, Fred. Though I do admit," he added, turning to Percy, "that instead of working, you could relax, if just for a day."

Percy looked scandalized at this suggestion while George stealthy crept across the table, reaching Charlie's side. Percy's indignation deepened, but Charlie just chuckled.

"I'll tell you, George," he said, his grin not leaving, "if McGonagall were here, I'd have no choice but to dock points."

"You weren't so keen to dock points when George and I nicked food from the kitchens, were you," Fred pointed out.

"You what," Percy asked, turning his head to his right. "Are you saying you stole-"

"Crikey, Percy," Charlie said, feigning a dumb-founded expression, "you're saying you didn't know? And I reckoned you'd get straight O.W.L.'s."

"As prefect, it is you're responsibility to ensure that rules, regardless of who is breaking them, are kept and order is retained," Percy hotly contested, his face red.

"Bollocks," Charlie said simply. "If they blew up the History of Magic classroom, then sure, I'd be over them like Mum when the school year starts, but blimey, Percy, I've nicked food from the kitchens. With the power of prefect, you need to follow the rules, yeah, but also use a little common sense."

Emily observed this awkward interaction while slowly sitting to the right side of Fred. She grabbed the nearby eggs and toast, loading her plate up.

"Yeah, just be chuffed we're not blowing up classrooms," Fred replied with a grin. "Thanks for setting the bar high, by the way," he added to Charlie.

Charlie's lips turned up at this remark, but continued to sternly stare at Percy. "Listen, Perce, I know you mean well, but don't put your dedication to rules over harmless fun. Your job as prefect won't be easy if you do."

Percy straightened his horn-rim glasses, a pronounced frown forming. "I will simply abide by the agreed-to rules; nothing more, nothing less."

Charlie sighed. "You'll make Mum happy, at least. Guess we can't ask for more than that."

"Oi," Fred called from Emily's left, "speaking of making Mum happy, what are you doing after Hogwarts?"

"Yeah, enough cryptic clues," George added, rolling his eyes. "If the Cannons took you on, don't hide it from us."

Charlie grimaced. "Honestly, if the Cannons was the only offer I got, I'd be better off a Muggle."

Emily chuckled at this, while Fred replied, "Better than the Finches, though, eh?"

"Who the bloody hell are the Finches," Charlie asked, gob-smacked. "I know my Quidditch, and I think you pulled that name out of your arse."

"They're from the States, right," George asked, mildly confused himself. "Didn't they put in a good show this season?"

"I'd be knackered if I knew," Fred replied, all of the sudden looking down crest. "Honestly, after the Kestrels got decimated by the Catapults, I've been right put of Quidditch."

Charlie nodded solemnly. "The Catapults are good, but yeah, that was a surprise." He shook his head, then, as if he just remembered something, looked straight at Emily. "You like Quidditch?"

"I've been to a few games," Emily said, nodding. "I'm an Arrows girl. Last I heard, they didn't fare too well against the Bats, though."

"What was it, 290-70, something like that," Fred asked. Charlie and George murmured in agreement.

"Yeah, that was a bit of a butchering," Charlie added. "Still, 420-150? What were the Kestrels playing at?"

"I reckon they downed five barrels of Firewhiskey before flying on the field. Merlin, that was a dodgy game" George said, frowning.

"They couldn't have been that dreadful," Percy insisted, obviously surprising his brothers by joining into the conversation. "They caught the snitch, didn't they?"

"Yeah, but that's all they did," Charlie stressed. "The chasers barely had their hands on the Quaffle."

"We all know the Catapults are a better team than the Kestrels, though," Percy replied, his tone absolute. "It shouldn't have come as a surprise."

Fred was about to add something, but then a wide grin appear on his face. "Well done, innit? George, give Charlie a pat on the back for me, will ya?"

At first, George appeared lost, but then grinned also, throwing his right arm around Charlie's shoulders. "Nice try. You had us going," George said in praise. "However, as brilliant as you may think you are, we're not gnomes. Where are you off to post-Hogwarts?"

Charlie drank some pumpkin juice from his goblet slowly prior to replying, while his three brothers, plus Emily, looked at him intently.

"Well, don't say a word to Mum, mind," he began, looking put off, "but I've been talking a lot with Kettleburn and Hagrid, and they both say I'd do well to go study dragons."

"Dragons," Fred repeated, awe-struck. "Blimey, you could play for Tutshill if you wanted, but you're going for dragons?"

"Not a word to Mum," Charlie reiterated his tone one of warning. "She'll be shirty enough when I work up the nerve to tell her, so spare me." He specifically, Emily noted, was eying Percy with that last line, and Percy just stiffly nodded.

The five of them just sit there in silence, and Emily thought, for the first time in what seemed like a while, that today was Christmas, she wasn't with her parents, and her life was crashing around her. _It just doesn't feel like it, though_.

"Hey, um, guys," Emily spoke up after some time, "speaking of Hagrid, he invited my down to his house around one for lunch. Do any of you want to join me? It might be a tight fit, but-"

"Fancy going to Hagrid's? Bloody right I am," Charlie loudly said, causing a few of the others in the Hall to glance around. "It's not a bad idea, either. Hagrid probably gets pretty lonely 'round these times."

"Not if he's out herding up Fire Crabs, he's not," Fred said, but still looked pleased at the prospect of visiting him.

"Nah, Fire Crabs are too tame for him," George amended, then looking at Emily. "Sure, though, we'd be happy to go."

Percy said nothing for what seemed the longest time, and then quietly nodded his head. "That indeed sounds quite the good plan."

And with that, Emily's day with the Weasleys had just begun.

* * *

_I never knew true friendship until I met them, _a one-year older Emily considered, her right hand on a quill, her left holding down a parchment._They made my Christmas far better than I ever would have dreamed, and they weren't even trying._

Emily let loose a lengthy sigh. After her second term at Hogwarts, Emily and her father had relocated to the States, and she now attended the West Coast Wizarding Institute, hidden among the Redwood Forests of California. Though much smaller than Hogwarts, Emily didn't mind – the atmosphere was nice, and the professors seemed to take a much more personal stake in the work of their students.

_Still, _she considered, dipping her quill into ink, _I don't think I'll ever be able to forget how included they made me feel. Hagrid, the Weasleys, and-_ Her mind went blank, trying to conjure the face of the kindly ghost who had escorted her to the Great Hall.

_The Fat Friar_, she suddenly recalled, and smiled at the recollected name, absent-mindedly wiping tears which formed in her eyes . Emily then began writing her letter.

_Dear Fred and George (like I can bloody tell you apart),_

_I wanted to…_

**The End**


	4. The Whole Scoop

This article appeared in the March 4th 2048 edition of _The Daily Prophet_, in the _Editorials_ section.

_My Life of Lies: How I Shamelessly Mislead the Public_

_The Wizengamot has a saying, so deeply embedded in their personalities that it has been taken on as an unofficial motto of sorts. That saying is "ignorantia juris neminem excusat." To those readers not versed in Latin, this roughly translates to "ignorance of the law excuses no one." This means that when a crime is committed, whether or not the perpetrator was aware a law was being broken, they must still face the consequences. It is by taking this stance that our justice system, especially in more modern times, protects the whole of our Wizarding community, and ensures that those who do wrong are punished both fairly and promptly._

_I could make an argument over whether or not ignorance should be grounds to at least a less harsh sentence, but that is far beside the point. I am not ignorant of the many wrong-doings I have committed. Despite my full knowledge of this motto, I have lived my life and career as dishonestly and illegally as one could scarcely imagine, and I am writing this to let all those who've been loyal readers of my articles and books know the kind of person I am, and the nasty steps I have taken to make sure my works would be read._

_I am not a young woman chasing after readers anymore. No longer will I write the sensationalistic-titled stories containing only the most insignificant inklings of truth, nor am I much interested in the mindless gossip I have, throughout my career, used to propagate my name. In fact, as a result of this editorial being published, it is likely I will spend the remainder of my days in Azkaban. Should it come to this, I will not fight it. If a trial is held, consider this a confession. It is only just, given the circumstances of my follies._

_Though I've not published an article in ten long years now (my last of which was a dishonest piece accusing then-Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt of mass coercion of the Wizarding community in regards to the true dangers of reinstating employment of Dementors, a fiery, bitterly-fought debate which was only settled in full 2044), I have never once publicly admonished the writings of my younger, far more foolish self. I have multiple best-selling biographies, chock-full of twisted conclusions and downright lies. I cannot even begin to express the disgust I feel toward myself for allowing my lies to go on for so long, nor can I ever find a way to properly apologize for every misleading word my Quick-Quotes Quill and I concocted. Even if I were to live for 40 more years, I doubt an appropriate apology would ever be possible._

_I cannot say with certainty when my propensity for falsehoods began. While a student in Hogwarts, I felt a thrill eavesdropping on conversations I had no right hearing, and yes, the thrill continued as I told others about what I had heard. Even then, though, I only recited what I heard, what I thought to be the truth. I never once in my years at Hogwarts intentionally mislead others when explaining a privet conversation I overhead. That scarcely makes me any better, but I apparently had some, be it limited, moral compass at the time that has faded with the years._

_I can say, though, that I full-well knew the path I was likely to take once finishing up my Hogwarts education. I had been deeply enamored with the idea of journalism, but due to the nature of the Ministry at that point in time, I had a feeling my appeases to interview employees would fall on deaf ears. It came to me my fourth year, while listening on two males confess their love to each other, that my job would be much easier were I able to shrink myself and become an unnoticed blotch on a nearby wall. The answer was then clear to me: become an Animagus._

_Simply put, for those not aware, an Animagus is a wizard or witch whom can transform themselves into an animal of some sort. It takes years of training to do, and if one is unsafe about it, very dangerous consequences can occur. According to Ministry law, every Animagus must register their name, animal they turn into, and notable markings with the Improper Use of Magic Office (this list, should anyone be interested, is fully available to the public), or risk imprisonment at Azkaban prison. I consciously chose not to register myself. It seemed to be a fair advantage to take for the sake of my planned profession, and while I studied History of Magic and Potions by day, I was training myself to keep the shape of a beetle by night._

_By the end of my seventh and final year at Hogwarts, I was successful. I could fully transform into a beetle, and ever since, getting the scope on a hot story was only as difficult as ensuring the subject said just what you wanted them to say._

_The very first target of my misattributed scorn, once I finished Hogwarts, was then relatively-recently deceased-Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Armando Dippet, with my book Armando Dippet: Master or Moron? A scathing, unfair critique of Dippet, whose term coincided with Tom Riddle's (Voldemort) attendance at the school, it was this book which first got me noticed, and also reinforced to myself my "method" of collecting information._

_After the publication of my first book, The Daily Prophet promptly hired me, and it is with them I forged an alliance, guaranteeing gossip pieces that no others would be privy too. Though one might blame this publication for being both deceptive and willing to fabricate stories that fit their interests, let me dispel such rumors now. While writing for The Daily Prophet, never once did they insist on sensationalism over truth. While it may be accurately stated that they did not watch over those they employed for dishonesty, we should be careful to blame not the publication itself for the lies printed, but the writer of those mistruths. What I wrote for The Daily Prophet purely my own fabrications and no one else should be responsible for such._

_I felt more mature when reporting on the trials of suspected Death Eaters following the downfall of Voldemort in 1981, though instead of reiterating the uncertainty of the processions, I focused more on scare tactics, such as relaying to my readers the dangers of public heroes like the late Ludovic Bagman, upon his suspicion of being a Death Eater (and of course, cleared of all charges by the Council of Magical Law). Though reporting on suspected Death Eaters did present benefits, the trials were over quickly, and I was again searching out the latest celebrity gossip in order to keep my name and brand relevant. I continued my focus on these petty stories, rapidly growing the base of my readers, for 15 years before I discovered my next big shot: The Boy Who Lived._

_My relationship with Harry James Potter has been greatly exaggerated by the press. Of course, it was by my own doing that this exaggeration exists. I was given the opportunity to interview the Triwizard Tournament champions for the 1994-1995 Tournament, among them 14-year old Harry Potter. I treated the young boy unfairly in my initial interview, and ever since, his trust of me has been rightfully limited. The whole of the piece I wrote on the Tournament focused on Mr. Potter, and I barely mentioned the other champions (late Cedric Diggory, Qudditch Star Victor Krum, and Miss Fleur Delacour). Worse yet, my focus on Harry Potter was an all-out character assassination on the boy whom had been through enough Hell at that point in time, and only had more to endure as the years would pass._

_I used him. I used his name and his fame in order to further my readership. Being banned shortly thereafter from entering Hogwarts grounds by late-Headmaster Albus Dumbledore did not stop me from pursuing what I saw as the story of the decade. Though I was unable to engage Harry Potter in any more interviews (until later in our lives), I found another angle – his friendship with now-retired Care of Magical Creatures professor, Rubeus Hagrid. A favorite of students attending Hogwarts for decades upon decades, I attacked him over both his teaching style and his apparent Half-Giant status. A student of his, and friend of Potter's, Hermione Granger confronted me after the publication of the articles in question. After a harsh, though fair rebuttal of my writings, I responded in the only way I knew how, and wrote untruthful articles on the young witch also._

_To label me "petty" would not be doing me justice. There is no excuse whatsoever for a professional to ever attack a young child, accusing them of slights that even the smallest smidgen of common sense would indicate to be untrue. Granger is currently employed by the Ministry of Magic, after bravely and selflessly assisting Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley in defeating the dark wizard Voldemort. Even in her young age, she was a brave witch, and still I defamed her._

_Afterwards, there was one year which I wrote nothing, though I regret to say it was not of my own accord, but benevolent blackmail. My Animagus form had been discovered, and I was barred from writing any lies for one year, or my identity and abilities would be released to the Ministry of Magic. In retrospect, one would hope that the severity of such a situation would serve as a wake-up call._

_It did not. Not by a long shot._

_My early articles unfairly portraying young Harry Potter as mentally unstable had taken hold as the Ministry of Magic refused to accept that Voldemort had returned during the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament, 1995. Though I was no longer writing for the Prophet, my work was expanded on, and the beginning of the smear campaign against both Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore (the only one willing to publicly support Mr. Potter's claims on Voldemort's return) had been initiated._

_One of my few good deeds was done on 14 February, 1996, when I interviewed Harry Potter on the truth of the resurgence of Voldemort. Again, however, to ensure the record is kept straight, this was not out of the goodness of my heart, but a condition of my blackmail. Though I knew the Prophet would not pick up the story, The Quibbler (an alternative periodical, still printed to this day) would, and when it was printed, became the highest-selling issue The Quibbler had ever printed. The interview was a rarity for me – not one word was misattributed, misleading, or meant to confuse the readers. Every word printed was true, which has not occurred in one of my writings since, this editorial being the sole exception to the rule._

_For another year, though no longer under direct blackmail, I chose to lie low, and wrote only the occasional, seemingly harmless gossip. I thought little of Harry Potter during that period, but that quickly changed with what appeared to many the mysterious death of Albus Dumbledore in 1997. I attended the funeral, then immediately afterwards, used a plethora of illegal and unethical methods to get the full scoop. If it has just been my use of Animagus abilities, that would have been bad enough, but no, I stooped to even lower levels._

_The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore was written largely by tricking well-renowned magical historian Bathilda Bagshot into drinking Veritaserum, a truth serum strictly controlled by the Ministry (another one of my many illegal actions). Bagshot was quite unable to fight off the effects of the serum, having lived a long, fruitful life, and thus, she revealed to me many stories about the late Dumbledore not known by the general public. I drained her of all she knew, stole any pictures that she had I thought would be beneficial, and left her in a confused state I can't help but to shiver when I imagine. She was found dead later that year, which left such a heavy feeling of guilt on me, I even considered giving up journalism. I shook the feeling off quickly, though, and persisted in my erroneous ways._

_The biography of Dumbledore was another best-seller upon its release. I turned many against the benevolent hero that was the true Albus Dumbledore, and it is one of my biggest regrets that too this day, my book is used as the foundation of various Dumbledore conspiracy theories. I will admit, when presented with only half the facts, the beloved former Headmaster of Hogwarts seemed to be a questionable wizard, if not a bit Dark. However, I well knew that the information I had gathered from Bagshot was not the full story – it was an incomplete picture, but instead of searching for the full history, I haphazardly published the little I had, embellishing the limited information into nine-hundred pages of biased, unprofessionally-written gossip._

_My next biography was the bastardization of Harry Potter, whom had shortly beforehand defeated the greatest threat the Wizarding community has ever known. Basing most of the book off my limited dealings with the young man, along with his acquaintances at school, I painted a very negative picture of the best of our kind since Albus Dumbledore. Around the same time, I was writing another biography, this one on the hero of the Second Wizarding War, late Severus Snape._

_Despite the attempts of Harry Potter and his connections in the Ministry, I published the book and again, I had another best-seller on my hands, though I am happy to report sales were not nearly as high as previous sales had been. It spent only two weeks on top of the Daily Prophet's Bestseller list. Still, my uneducated portrayal of Severus Snape led to many branding him both a coward and a villain to this day. I cannot express how untrue this sentiment is. For further information, I would recommend the professionally-written biography simply titled Snape: The Story, anonymously released, but Harry Potter and his friends have defended the book on every possible occasion._

_The 2000's passed quickly, having written two more falsified biographies (McGonagall: Malevolent Headmistress? and The Unabridged Truth of Minister Shacklebolt's Fascist Regime), though neither one sold in high numbers. I also wrote many articles for Witch Weekly, continuing my malicious, petty attacks on celebrities, including Harry Potter and others instrumental in the battle against evil. Toward the end of the decade, I again considered retiring from writing, feeling that at 60 years old, it'd be too trying a profession for me. That thought dissipated quickly when I learned from a source that Victor Krum was coming out of retirement, and would be participating in the 2014 Quidditch Cup._

_I witnessed the Cup final between Bulgaria and Brazil, reporting live on the game. Or I was supposed to. Embarrassingly enough, though certainly not surprising, I focused far more on VIP Box 2, where Harry Potter and his family and friends were sitting. I reported not on Brazil's first goal of the match, but on silly ideas of marital problems between Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander. I was rightly hexed by Ginny Potter, former player for the Holyhead Harpies and current Quidditch correspondent for the Daily Prophet, following Bulgaria's shocking win. I have not seen either Harry Potter, his wife, or his friends since._

_My seventh book, Dumbledore's Army: The Dark Side of Demob, came out shortly after. As per my usual writings, I claimed to follow the lives of those who were involved in the anti-corrupt Ministry organization Dumbledore's Army, though I focused far more on the negatives (Seamus Finnegan's harmless interest in gambling) than I did the positives (Cho Chang's position as newly-instated therapist at Hogwarts). As I was in the limelight more than I had been since the late 1990's, this book sold far better than both my previous books combined, though it still didn't achieve the high praise of my 20-year old works._

_My bitterness at being cut off from the Potter family and his friends took hold of me, I fully admit. While I didn't focus my rage into a book, I wrote a series of articles focused on the Boy Who Lived, and all of his friends, filled of fury and vitriol, all of it founded on nothing but my anger and heresy. I steeped low once more, and attacked Ron and Hermione Weasley's daughter Rose for having multiple sexual relations with those outside of her Hogwarts House. I persisted down this disgusting and regrettable route on-and-off for three years. Nobody was reading by then (which made me angrier at the time, but now I look back at that fact in relief)._

_When 2020 came around, I was, for the most part, a washed-up mockery of my former self. I had no family, and at 69, the likelihood I'd ever have one was increasingly low. Then came what was known the be the "Wolverhampton Massacre," in which a group of five dark wizards (suspected members of the infamous Malfoy family, though this was never proven) went on a rampage, using both Hungarian Horntails and Chimeras, killing no less than 30 Muggles and 11 wizards and witches, three of whom were Ministry employees. As any has-been reporter would do, I quickly went to the scene of the atrocity, and took notes, publishing them a week later in the Daily Prophet._

_My notes were significantly less biased than my previous works, but once I had my foot in the door, I milked my newly powerful position as Political correspondent to shape the Ministry of Magic as a tyrannical government, writing and focusing on countless non-issues, making it seem as though we all were under the power and authority of shapeless and nameless individuals, slowly stripping away our rights in order to fully take us over. It was, in all honesty, much the same language I had used in my "biography" of Minister Shacklebolt's early days of power. I kept this position for an amazingly lengthy period of ten years without being sacked. When I left, I did so of my own free will, and from there on out, only wrote articles on a sporadic basis._

_I have lied to the Wizarding community over and over again, without any interest in the consequences the lies would produce, or any shame in lowering the depths of humility and public discourse. I have broken so many laws, I honestly wouldn't be surprised if capital punishment were reinstated just to deal with me alone. The fabrications, the lies, the mistruths, misquotes, the libelous, slanderous, shoddy writing I used to be proud of has all come from unethical journalistic standards, illegal serums and eavesdropping on private conversations as a beetle._

_I received an owl a week ago from Eldritch Longbottom, the lone grandson (so far, at least) of beloved Herbology professor Neville Longbottom at Hogwarts. It was only one line, one question, but after reading it, I am not ashamed to admit I broke down in tears, and only a cup of tea hours later began to calm me down._

_The question was, verbatim, "What's wrong with you?"_

_I can honestly say that I do not know what is wrong with me. I've lived a dishonest life, and only a few times in my long career have I ever felt anything I could call shame or guilt. I've felt nothing but for the last three years of my life, and Eldritch's simply question brought it all to heart. I have wasted my life chasing after readers, the juicy gossip, the outright slanderous words that make up my career._

_I could easily kill myself – even if I am not strong enough to do it manually, I could turn myself into a beetle and fly to a public place, waiting to be swatted to death. I won't lie, nor have I once during the whole of this editorial, but I find that an appealing way for my life to end._

_But I won't. I have listed here the crimes and injustices I have committed, and I will sit in my small apartment, located in Yorkshire, waiting for the appropriate responses from authorities. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, along with the Improper Use of Magic Office, will have a field day with me, I am sure. At this point, I wouldn't have it any other way._

_To Harry and Ginny Potter, Ron and Hermione Weasley, their respective families, Severus Snape, Armando Dippet, Albus Dumbledore, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Rubeus Hagrid, Minerva McGonagall, every member of Dumbledore's Army and the Ministry of Magic, along with every staff member of Hogwarts School and the Daily Prophet, and lastly every single person who trusted a single word I said or wrote, I send my sincerest regrets for the hardships I have brought up your life. I will accept the verdict in stride, because no matter how bad it could be, I know deep inside that I deserve far worse._

_I'm sorry, Eldritch – I could have done better. So much better._

Written by Rita Skeeter, dated March 3rd, 2048


	5. childish wonder

**Author's Note:**

**This chapter, disjointed due to it being from the point of view of two young, frightened sisters, is purely an experiment I wanted to mess around with in writing. After I was finished writing it, I read it, and felt, while definitely rough, it has a certain ring of both innocence and terror in it.**

***Shrugs* So it's not you're typical chapter, but even so, there is a story in the worlds, albeit it, as aforementioned, though the eyes of two, young, confused girls. Insofar as my reasons for trying this style, I wanted to mention the Lewis Carroll poem 'The Jabberwocky.'**

**Read and review if you feel necessary, and if this chapter is removed, I understand - it definitely isn't my normal material.**

* * *

"Wait," Melinda cried, screaming so terrorily

"I wouldn't go in there, it's totally scarelly."

But still, despite this, her sister entered the abandoned apothecary

Melinda followed slowly, so silent and acting wary

The blackened walls from the last explosion

Afterward time stood still – frozen

Even for wizards, this technique is antique

Melinda and her sister just stare around – bleak

And the doors disappeared, there's dark magic in the room

"Did I do this," she freaked out, insanely, "is this our last tomb?"

And her sisters cried as up a floorboard had crack-ted

But she dodged it, slipping backwards, right unconscious

Though she wasn't, her small mind considered, taking in the sight here.

My sis-sis and my dolly its right over there

But when she lifted her hand, a bright light shined, blared

And then darkness, no my sis-sis, no my dolly, no I'm scared

Earlier That Day

The rustic shack overlooked a looming moor. Wizards lived there before

But to the Bobbins it was lore

A wizard family isolated, but Hogwarts was coming, so they waited

Knowing their two daughters fated

To walk the halls they all come to love

But young, they almost didn't make it, before either acceptance letter

And to mentioned it flurried, no, to fully explain would be better

Josie, Melinda's younger sister, played a game Melinda didn't like, she looked around and she is missing

She hears a giggling and swings that direction and now walking

Their father owned many an apothecary, and even though Melinda felt it scary

Josie loved it here to both hide and herror

But the ones that were empty – Floo Powder got them there but once

Melinda considered her belly had hurting, during the spinning losing her lunch

So the elder held the younger's hand, both with tears in their eyes.

They missing and their parents had no idea why

So while the Wizarding community sniffed around as they searched

Still it took so long to find them, detecting Floo Powder's the worse

And they found them, some days later, both black sooted, both in ashes

And they cried in the bathtub concerned parents giving them splashed

What had happened, no one knew, even Dumbledore only speculated

And though he sought to find the truth, her knew those sometimes never waited

Even the Bobbin sisters aren't sure what they remember real or faked

But the big monster with big teeth made sure their sleep that year waked


	6. A Difficult Conversation

**Author's Note:**

**This story was always met more than anything else as a story to write when the mood struck. Being an anthology work, it's easy to do that.**

**All of the Quidditch teams listed are canon, along with the shop Spintwitches. This is a shorter chapter, but I feel the message is important.**

**Rights belong to J.K. Rowling.**

* * *

Marius Wright, at 49-years old, has had his share of strenuous conversations. But the one he was about to have, he sensed, would be far more trying than most.

He rearranged the papers on his desk, though it was nothing more than idle motions. Marius marked something off his calendar, and glanced to the fireplace on his right. Sighing, he rubbed his temple, and didn't even flinch when right at 1:30 PM, a figure stepped into the office from the aforementioned fireplace.

24-year old Owen Price, five-year Beater for the Caerphilly Catapults, stooped in front of Marius' desk, his muscular arms crossed, and a concerned look on his face.

"First thing's first, Marius," Owen coolly began, "are the rumors I'm hearing right? Are you working on getting me traded to Tutshill?"

Marius, far be it for him to feel panicked under pressure, conjured a chair up. "Please sit down, Owen. I get the sense that we'll be here a spell."

Moodily, Owen sighed, and sat down, his arms crossed still. "You're my agent. You can't send me anywhere I refuse to go. If that's what this is, I'll hire another one."

"Dammit," Marius cried, banging his hand on his desk. "I have been working my bum off for you the moment I saw your final match at Hogwarts. If you don't remember, Owen, it was I who approached you about going pro. Without me, you'd be stuck stocking brooms at Spintwitches. I wouldn't send you to another team unless I got your permission. Have some faith in me."

At this, Owen again sighed, giving him a glance over. "I'm sorry," he replied after a few seconds. "I really am. You're right - I need to trust you, mate. You've done alright by me my whole career. I owe it to you to not jump to conclusions."

Before Owen had finished his statement, he waved his hands. "Think nothing of it. I remember when I played for the Wanderers. When I heard I might get sent over to the Meteorites, I got right worked up too."

"Moose Jaw ain't too bad though, innit," Owen replied, a sly smile on his face. "I mean, for Canadian Quidditch."

Shrugging, the older man replied, "I've been in Scotland my whole life. I'm wasn't leaving them, no matter what they offered me."

Owen nodded. "What was I summoned here for, then, mate?"

Marius stalled. "Much like you, I've heard some rumors too, and I wanted to see if there was anything to them."

A stoic expression appeared on Price's face all of the sudden. "What rumors," he asked, attempting not to betray his concern.

"I want to say first," Marius began slowly, "that none of this, if true, changes anything between us. I consider you a good friend, and fantastic Quidditch player. I want you to know this."

"What rumors," Price repeated.

"Aw, bloody hell," Marius groaned. "I've heard that you're a queer, Owen. A homosexual."

Owen froze, a slight blush crawling to his cheeks. "Where did you hear that rubbish?"

"Is it true," Marius asked, brushing aside Prices' question. "Are you gay?"

"Yes, I am," Owen replied, gulping afterwards. "Who told you?"

"I've heard mumblings from multiple people, Owen. Coaches, players. A manager. How I only heard this last week, though, your bet is as good as mine."

"So that's what this is," Owen asked heatedly. "I like men, and you're-"

"That is not what I'm doing," Marius firmly replied, shaking his head. "I wanted to talk to you, to come up with options. Like it or not, this is something we have to deal with, and now."

"If it slips out I sleep around with men, what of it," Owen growled. "It's 1973. I don't think anyone cares anymore."

"If you believe that, it's blissful ignorance," Marius stated, sharper than he had intended. "Remember Justine O'Connell? When it came out she was a lesbian in '64, the Kestrels tossed her out that day. And despite being one damn fine Keeper, England wouldn't touch her. Sure, the Kestrels are a religious lot, but it still damaged O'Connell's career beyond repair. She eventually took a job training kids over in France. It might not be a big deal to you, but the League, not to mention the fans, still care."

Owen contemplated this. In a small voice, he replied, "What should I do, then? I love this game. And I want to stay with the Catapults. I can't imagine that they'd sack me for this."

"As a team, no," Marius agreed, "but should public pressure force their hand, they very well might. You're not a big player, no offense meant, but you do have a strong following in Wales. And once parents find out their kid's Quidditch hero is a poofter, all bets are off."

Owen cringed at the word, but let it pass. "Do you have cause to believe that it is likely to be leaked?"

"Direct cause? No, I don't," Marius admitted. "But too many people know. And we need to get ahead of this as best we can if we want to make sure the Catapults keep you on when it does come out. I need to know, how many Quidditch players know?"

At this, Owen blanched. "Marius, I won't lie to you, but I want to be clear: Are you asking me to name all the players I've slept with?"

"A rough estimate, merely," Marius replied. "I don't need or want specific names. That doesn't matter to me."

Silence filled the room as Owen considered his answer, a sign that struck Marius as slightly ominous.

"21."

Unable to stop himself, Marius quickly replied, "Merlin's beard! Did you say 21?"

The blush, at first just noticeable, became significantly more pronounced. "Yes, that's right."

"I wouldn't have believed," the older wizard began mumbled, trailing off. He sighed, and looked back up at Owen. "How many different teams are we talking?"

"Listen, I've been with men from the Wasps to the Stormers to the Quafflepunchers to the Kites. Hell, I even got with a Chaser from Giant-Slayers. Believe me when I say I've pretty much covered the spectrum."

"So you've been, well," Marius started, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "busy, I see."

"But none of those people would risk their own careers by threatening to out me."

"No, I wouldn't expect so. But if one of them is offered a pay-out by another team? You think these men would be so loyal then?"

Angrily, Owen shook his head. "Some, yes. Some, no. What are my options?"

"If you don't want to leave the Catapults, and stay in the League, the only thing I can think of is this, but it's not bloody likely you'll want to do it."

His face stony, Price merely asked "What?"

"A press release and conference. Tomorrow. Or a few days, whatever works best for you as long as a week doesn't pass. You come out as gay to the public."

Owen's cringe almost made Marius cringe. "If that's all I can do," he began, "then I'll do it. Do I need to write some fancy speech to give?"

"I've worked out a rough draft for you to work off of," Marius gently replied. "Fill in the blank spots, add as much detail as you want, but just try to stick to the script."

Owen closed his eyes, and put his hand on his head. "My family doesn't know about this, Marius. You're really forcing my hand."

"Then I would recommend talking to them."

Mournfully, the young man sighed. "I didn't know I was gay 'til my third year at Hogwarts. And when I found out, I didn't let my friends know until halfway through fourth year. But they were all cool with it. They never let it get out. And now, I've got to tell the world."

"Listen, Owen," Marius began, and the young man looked up at him, "I know it won't be easy. But I do think that most people will let it go. Most Quidditch fans aren't going to make up their minds that they hate you over this, and most players will still think of you first as a Beater, and not anything else. Remember, it's not the League that cares if you're a woman, if you're gay, if you're a racial minority, whatever. It's the fans who can screw that up for the players and make it an issue. You get ahead of all that, and you're home free."

Marius pulled out a piece of parchment, and handed it over to Price. "This is what I have. Let me know when you can give the conference."

Owen took the parchment in his hand. "Thanks for not thinking any differently of me, mate."

Marius nodded. "I won't pretend to understand it, Owen, but I do know it doesn't make you any less of a Quidditch player or any less of a person. In a perfect world, it shouldn't matter."

The young player stood up and walked toward the fireplace, grabbing some Floo powder off the mantelpiece. "You're right. It shouldn't."

He threw the powder into the fireplace, claimed his destination, and left. Marius Wright, 49-years old, sat there, running his hand through his powered-gray hair in silence.

_I've not had the easiest life_, he considered to himself. _But Merlin, I'm lucky my life isn't as hard as his._

And he continued fiddling with the papers on his desk, sorting both his mind and his trinkets. All-the-while, the young Owen Price never left his thoughts.


	7. A Night Beside Heinstert Ruins

**This story from here on out will be updated monthly. I'm planning to get one chapter out a month, likely between the 13th and the 17th. If a chapter will be earlier or later, I will try to indicate that in the previous chapter.**

**If there are any questions, please let me know via PM or review.**

**This story, by the way, takes place July 1985. Dates are referenced herein, so just thought I'd let you know the year.**

**All of the characters are created by me, aside from Amarillo Lestoat, who is a creation of J.K. Rowling.**

* * *

When Elliott Myers first Apparated to his location, he thought he made a mistake.

"Hello," he called out to the seemingly empty landscape, his tone unsure.

This area, this heavily forested area, struck him as an odd place to meet. What he was doing here, he didn't even yet know. Wand out, he called out again. "Is anyone there?"

"Shut it," came a gruff voice, and four individuals walked out from behind a grouping of trees. Their wands were all aimed at Elliott. An older man, his faced masked in seriousness, his brown hair tied in a ponytail, inquired at the younger wizard. "You Myers?"

Elliott nodded. "I am, yes." He had hoped that after his identity had been established, they'd have lowered their wands.

Of course, they didn't.

"Who sent you?"

"Fletcher," Elliott replied quickly, not quite sure what his superior got him into. "Connor Fletcher, of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Being Division."

"Paragraph Twelve of the _Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans_ prohibits what," the older wizard shot back." At this, one of the wizards in the group, a younger Arab, shook his head, but kept his wand on Myers.

"It prohibits vampires from being hunted down and killed arbitrarily. Can we stop with the pop quiz," Elliott replied, his annoyance getting the better of him.

The Arab cracked a smile, and lowered his wand. Two others followed suit, but the one asking questions kept his raised. "Alexander," stated the Arab wizard, "he's cleared. Let it go."

"Constant vigilance and all that rot," the wizard shot back, but lowered his wand anyway.

"You served with Moody," Elliott asked, connecting the phrase, slightly awe-struck.

"I was there when he got his leg blown off," he gruffly replied. "Name's Taylor. Alexander to my friends. You can call me either Taylor or sir."

Elliott wasn't able to stifle a grin at that predictable reply. "Sure thing, sir."

Before Taylor could reprimand Myers, the Arab wizard spoke. "I'm Shafeek Rezek. And behind me is Mikkel Ødegård," a light brown-haired wizard nodded, his sharp chin giving him a very straight-laced countenance, "and Hui Qian." An Asian wizard also nodded to him, a small grin on his face.

"We done with the introductions yet," Taylor grumpily asked.

Rezek rolled his eyes.

"As you can see, Myers," Rezek said to Elliott, a smile on his face, "not all of us are as well-mannered as myself."

"You have any idea why you're here, Myers," Taylor asked, waving off Rezek's words.

"No, sir," Elliott honestly answered. "I was given a picture of this location by Fletcher, and he told me to report here as soon as I could, and so I did. I certainly didn't ask to be moved to whatever unit this is."

"No one asks to be moved to this unit," Ødegård cryptically stated. "But we really could benefit from your presence. We need to get you up to speed first, though. Brace yourself."

"As ominous as Odi makes it sound," Qian spoke for the first time, "he's right. This may come as a shock to you."

Before Elliott could ask one of the many questions on his tongue, Taylor stated, "We're vampire hunters."

Elliott incredulously shook his head at this declaration. "Vampire hunters? What, like-"

"We hunt down vampires that have either harmed, or we believe will harm, Muggles and wizards alike," Qian explained gently. "We all serve different governments, but this matter is important enough to be dealt with in joint-operations. I'm from the Magical State Council of China. Taylor's obviously from your Ministry. Odi is from the Norwegian Sorcery Administration. Rezek is from-"

"Hey now, let's not go revealing that," Rezek said swiftly, though his tone a good-natured one. "Suffice it to say I'm from Lebanon, but my government tries hard to keep a low profile."

"Wait, why am I here," Myers replied, trying to shake off all the non-pertinent information. "I'm no vampire killer. And we're not even allowed-"

"First off, you're here because Fletcher apparently saw a use for you," Taylor stated. "I'm retiring in a few months anyway, and this little unit needed a Ministry representative when I leave. That is, if you decide to stay. Secondly, while technically speaking, the Ministry of Magic follows the _Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans_, we're not in England anymore. We're in Belgium. Those rules don't apply to us."

"Why isn't a representative of the Belgium government here, then," Myers inquired, trying to take this information in as quickly as possible.

"Van Damme was killed a few weeks back, and a replacement hasn't been found," Qian replied simply.

"Killed," Myers asked, shocked.

"What part of 'vampire hunters' did you not understand," Taylor shot back, harshly. "We're not playing paddy cakes here, boy."

"Hey, give the kid some time," Rezek shouted at Taylor. "Listen," he began, now looking at Elliott, "we know that this is a lot to take in. I was transferred here a few years back, and believe me, I know what you're going through." To Taylor, he said, "Let's just explain what's going on here and now, okay? Keep the background information to a minimum"

"Heinstert, a village half a mile from here," Taylor began, pointing westward, "has had three Muggles killed in the last month, sucked dry of their blood. Now, you know and I know that most vampires nowadays are harmless." At this, Elliott nodded. "It's the minority that we care about. This unit was put together initially by the Germany Ministry back in '72. Our objective was to take down vampires who actively posed a threat to others. Members came and went. One of the earliest groups ran amok of a tribe of vampires who preferred human blood as opposed to living the nonviolent life most vampires do. The Lestoat Coterie, they call themselves. How long they've been around, we don't know. But we've been after them since '73. And they've killed almost half of our numbers, Van Damme included. Some of us," he nodded to the group standing lazily behind him, "believe the murders in Heinstert to be the responsibility of this group."

"The Lestoat Coterie," Elliott repeated. "Named after Amarillo Lestoat, I take it?"

"Yeah," Qian replied, nodding. "We got that bastard back in '77, though he was already pretty old by then, and substantially weaker. We're guessing that this Lestoat Coterie was originally formed by Lestoat himself, to ensure that his perverted legacy go on."

"Any idea how many members this Coterie has," Elliott inquired.

"It's really hard to tell," Taylor replied, and Rezek nodded at this. "We've been able to hunt down and kill at least twenty confirmed members, but it's slow-going."

"This is the type of job that takes years to see the fruit of your work," Ødegård added. "I've been here since '79, and I've only been involved in the slaying of four vampires myself."

"Four vampires in six years," Elliott replied, his voice kept low, though he was on the verge of shouting. "Are you bloody kidding me?"

"Hey, we said that this is tough," Rezek replied defensively. "It's hard-going. And qualified, trust-worthy people to join our ranks are hard to come by, especially with pro-vampire groups on the rise."

"Society for the Tolerance of Vampires," Elliott stated, nodding. He knew them - a fringe group at first, they now had substantial membership, and even some Wizengamot members have gotten behind them in recent times.

"Them, among others," Taylor replied in disgust.

"Are we it, then? As far as hunters are concerned? Just the five of us," Elliott inquired, not believing the sheer weight put on such a small group.

"There are a few other units, but we don't know any members, nor do we interact," Qian stated. "Our governments set it up that way so if one of our groups is completely taken out or compromised, they'll still be others out there, and we wouldn't be able to divulge any information about them or their membership under torture, as we don't know them."

"Enough of this, though," Taylor spat. "You'll learn more as we get going. Right now, we need to investigate some ruins nearby Heinstert."

"Are we expecting any trouble," Elliott asked, not at all ashamed to feel his heart rate increase.

"Sure hope to Allah not," Rezek replied. "Those bodies found in Heinstert are probably from an attack months ago. But communities like this aren't really under the Belgium Ministry's eyes, so we only recently caught it. If I were a betting man, I'd say that those who perpetrated the attacks are long gone."

"One last question, if I may, sir," Elliott spoke, looking at Taylor. His superior nodded curtly, and he continued. "These attacks, do we know if they were by The Lestoat Coterie?"

Ødegård shook his head. "We don't know," he brusquely replied. "Could be the Coterie. Could be random."

"But we hope to find out by the end of the day," Taylor added. "So if you want to stick with us, then let's not waste more time. If you aren't up to this, and I have known plenty of people who weren't, then just go."

Rezek gave Elliott a small, yet encouraging, smile, and Qian subtly sent him a thumbs up.

_God, I hope I'm not making a mistake_, the 26-year old wizard considered. With a deep inhalation of breath, he nodded.

"Let's go to those bloody ruins."

* * *

The irony was lost on no one when they reached the ruins in question. Elliott doubled over and regurgitated at the sight. Quite literally, they were bloody ruins, and the stench they faced was abominable.

Qian patted him on the back, queasy himself, as Elliott wiped off his mouth and pointed at the mess he made. "Scourgify," he lightly said, and gone was the vomit. He stood up straight, his stomach still not what he'd describe as stable, but took a second look at the ruins. The urge to throw up again left only after a considerable amount of effort on Elliott's part.

"We have some lungs, half a heart, and a finger," Taylor observed in a distasteful manner, looking at the scene of the slaughter, his eyes slits. "Sacrificial. This is something we've seen only a few times prior."

"Czysta, Poland," Rezek replied, his body facing away from the massacre, appearing decidedly ill, which made Elliott's inner struggle to fight back his nausea slightly easier to bear, "and what was the other one? Belila, Bulgaria?"

"No, no, Belila was that grave robbery," Qian stated, shaking his head, his voice hollow. "The other one was Gura Siriului."

Qian, Ødegård, and Taylor all convulsively shuddered.

"Romania," Rezek explained, under his breath, to Elliott. "Before my time. It was bad, though. One of the veterans of our unit, a Greek named Panagakos, left after that."

"What's this sacrifice indicative of," Elliott inquired, forcing himself to keep staring at the ruins.

"This area's been marked," Taylor stiffly replied. "It's definitely the Coterie, We think it's some type of recruitment attempt, but we're not quite sure. The important thing is, Myers, that you came to us at a very interesting time. How old would you say the remains are?"

"Oh, um," Elliott began, thrown off by this question, "that's not really my area of expertise."

"Where were you when Fletcher moved you here, anyways," Taylor asked, his eyes flickering over to him. "Not an Auror, I take it."

"I worked investigative detail for the Goblin Liaison Office."

Taylor couldn't help but scoff at this. "Okay, then investigate. Is there anything about this scene that stands out?"

"The fact that no animals have finished off these remains strikes me as odd," Elliott quickly replied.

Qian gave an approving nod. "These remains are about two weeks old, give or take a few days. The reason there are no animals is because of what Taylor said. This area is marked."

"What does that entail? We're not being watched, are we," Elliott spoke, looking over both shoulders.

"No, but that'd make it easier to take them out," Rezek joked. "Right now, they're likely in some hidden crypt or something. Which means we'll be here a while," he added with a sigh.

"Our last job took place in the middle of Croatia, so honestly, this isn't too bad," Ødegård countered. He looked over at Taylor. "We camping out nearby?"

Taylor remained silent, staring past the ruins to a few bushes. Bushes with broken branches.

"Qian, you have any idea about vampire activity in this area? Numbers, reports, anything?"

"Heinstert's two casualties aside? There was rumblings about activity over in Schockville a few months back, but me and Van Damme checked it out. Nothing."

At this, Taylor remained silent. "Something's not right," he finally announced. "Rezek, Qian, secure this area. We're camping here."

"Here," Rezek repeated, eying the ruins, Qian already walking away from the group, his wand out. "Are you joking?"

"Do I joke," Taylor spat.

"Okay, okay, message clear," Rezek muttered, and went the opposite direction of Qian. Ødegård pulled out five sleeping bags from his tent. None of them, under Elliott's critical gaze, looked all that comfortable.

Taylor seemed to note his critical glances and nodded. "These are meant to keep you warm at night, and they do that well enough. As for comfort, well, we can't get too complacent now, can we?"

"Something else you learned from Moody," Elliott replied.

"Might be," Taylor grumbled, taking on of the sleeping bags from Ødegård. "Once Rezek and Qian are done setting up protective barriers, we can regroup and come up with a plan. We've got some bread and meat if you're hungry, and Rezek always carries an ungodly amount of water on him. It's not luxury, but it'll do."

And it did.

* * *

30 minutes later, the group of five were sitting on their sleeping bags, the dusk quickly departing. The levity provided by Rezek created a far calmer atmosphere as he tended to the fire. As much as levity could when they were a mere four meters from the ruins.

"No worries, mate. I lost that bloody sausage in the third pub," Rezek finished, throwing some twigs into the flames.

Ødegård groaned. Taylor shook his head, though a grin was present, should one look closely enough. Qian stared off into the distance, possibly not even listening. As for Elliott, despite hearing the joke plenty of times prior, he still smiled at Rezek.

"You might have gotten me to laugh if I hadn't heard it ten times before," Elliott stated. "Still, good try, chap."

"Taylor, you don't think we're headed toward another Gura Siriului, do you," Qian asked, keeping his eyes on the fading horizon. He turned toward the older wizard. "That's not what this is, is it?"

"I won't lie," Taylor replied, shaking his head, sounding as though he expected the sudden shift in tone. "I don't have a good feeling about this. But we're prepared if anything like that does happen again."

"If I may, sir," Elliott spoke, "what happened there?"

"Odi, you want to do the honors," Taylor replied, and everyone's eyes flickered to Ødegård, who nodded.

"We had gotten reports from the Romanian administration about increased vampire sightings. This was back in '78 I think. Small pockets of wizarding communities, mostly rural, witnessed them. They didn't harm anyone. Not then. But they sent us out to investigate it. We were a bigger unit then. Myself, Taylor, Qian, Vasile from the Romanians, Panagakos from the Greeks, and Hofer from the Germans. When we got there, all was quiet. Oh, there were signs of vampire activity," he explained, his voice quivering slightly at this recitation, "and it was obvious, but no deaths, no bodies, no maulings."

"We camped out there, half a kilometer away from Gura Siriului. Aside from Hofer and Taylor, no one thought there was anything to be concerned about;" - at this, Taylor mournfully nodded along - "we just planned to stay there a few days to make sure, and Vasile was informed by his government that he was to make sure there was no threat to the nearby communities. And for the first few nights, it went well. But maybe we got sloppy, because on the fourth night there, Vasile disappeared."

"We didn't know much what to think. Perhaps he'd been called in by his government? But that didn't make any sense, as we hadn't come to any conclusions," Ødegård continued. "We split off into pairs to search for him. Qian and I, Taylor and Panagakos, and Hofer went alone, because he was the senior member at the time. He was with the unit what," he asked, looking over at Taylor, "just one more year than Panagakos?"

"Not even," Taylor replied. "A few months more was all."

"Well, anyway," Ødegård stated, looking back over at Elliott, "we split up. And when we regrouped, Hofer didn't join us. So then, as one group, we combed the land again. It didn't take long to locate Hofer." At this point in time, he gulped before going on. "He was dead, though it happened very recently, I'd wager. His throat was torn open and a message, predictably written in his blood," Ødegård added with a grimace, "said 'Gura Siriului.'"

"We buried Hofer on the spot," Taylor added. "It's protocol. And we went off to the village. The same village that was days ago perfectly peaceful was now the scene of a butchering. The small wizarding community of ten people were all dead, massacre. The same for the twenty or so Muggle villagers."

"An utter bloodbath," Qian stated, shaking his head.

"Among the bodies were Vasile. He was still alive, but his mind was addled, is perhaps the best way to say it," Taylor explained. "He was able to speak and make sense, though. The Coterie set it up as a trap to get us here and then lower our numbers. They meant to kill all of us, but we were able to locate them a few days later and take out five of them. The one remaining vampire, we let live, so he could give the Coterie a message for us."

"What was the message," Elliott quickly asked.

"That in time, we would kill every last one of them, and there's nothing they could do to stop us."

"Personally," Qian spoke, "I didn't think it was the wisest move, but I was outvoted."

"Hofer and Panagakos served for a long time together, so after Hofer, Panagakos lost his spirits and left. I was thinking about leaving myself, but Odi was still new to this all, and I didn't want to leave just him and Qian alone."

"It was bad," Qian replied unnecessarily. "And this, well, it sort of feels the same."

"I have no idea if we were lured here," Taylor gruffly stated. "And for the time being, we should act as though we weren't. Just keep your eyes open and remember, constant vigilance."

A silence came over the group as they contemplated this. Rezek stoked the fire slowly, mechanically, gazing into the sputtering flames. Ødegård read a novel, Norwegian, and so Elliott couldn't tell the content. Qian was again looking out at the distant trees, worry quite apparent on his face. Taylor was in his sleeping bag, zipping it up from the inside.

"Today's been a bad first day, perhaps one of the worst," Taylor said, pulling Elliott out of his daze. "Think about what you want to do. This career isn't for everyone. But it needs to be done. And Fletcher sent you to us, so he puts faith in you. Whatever choice you make, we'll have your back. Sleep on that."

Elliott, for what it was worth, tried.

* * *

But he couldn't. Elliott glanced upward. The clouds were trying their best to block out the bleak darkness; the darkness came through in patches, undeterred. What struck the young wizard most were the stars, the few stars in sight, that hung in the sky, the overhanging branches above him reaching out to the light. A cloud passed overhead; the stars were gone.

A leaf skated the grass, and Elliott sighed.

The goal was noble; to rid the world as best as possible from the threat of vampires. But the numbers were not positive. And half of this specific unit was killed by one collection of foes? That did not bode well at all for Elliott. He knew the job likely did have to be done, but why him? Why would Fletcher send a member of the Goblin Liaison Office to hunt vampires? That flummoxed him still.

But he was here, and at least for the amount of time it took to figure out this location, to figure out if vampires posed a threat to nearby villages, Elliott would remain.

The thought was not so comforting. The stories he heard earlier tonight even less so. But the fact he had come to an answer of what he was going to do did take a bit of a load off his chest. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes.

* * *

The night was cool. It was calming, even. But Elliott Myers was far from calm.

Because he just heard a rustling of leaves. And there was a distinctive lack of wind.

Taylor's mantra, that of 'constant vigilance,' stuck with him, and while he knew that Qian was up still, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, Elliott stayed up too.

And the rustling continued.


End file.
